


Make It Out Alive

by annaamalia



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: A little bit of gore, Blood, Fire, Gen, Michael-centric, Tags Are Hard, Tags Contain Spoilers, Violence, Zombies, it's not really graphic violence, nomnom, the band exists, things just go a little differently after Michael has his close encounter with the pyrotechnics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-12 22:49:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4497687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annaamalia/pseuds/annaamalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael didn't feel any pain, he realised as he lay alone in the dark hotel room. In fact, he couldn't feel the side of his face at all. That was probably good, it meant the pain killers were working. He carefully ran his fingertips over the bandages. They felt kind of soggy but it didn't hurt. His skin had felt tough and crinkly when he took the towel away from his face backstage and he wondered if it looked like burned plastic. It smelled like someone had forgotten pork on an open-fire BBQ. Michael had read somewhere that human flesh tasted like pork. Apparently it also smelled like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pork

“He looks pale,” Luke said. They were gathered around Michael's hospital bed, his band mates, their tour manager and the PR lady for the UK and Ireland who was busily jotting down notes for a statement to be released. Ashton rolled his eyes. “He's always pale.”

“Not like this, though. This is, like, sick-pale.”

Now it was the tour manager's turn to roll his eyes. “He just got burned, what do you expect?”

Calum carefully leaned over Michael's prostrate body on the bed and smoothed the charred tendrils of hair away from the bandages on his face. “He doesn't feel so hot, anymore,” he said quietly. The PR lady flipped back a few pages on her notepad and nodded. “That's good,” she explained. “The doctor said the fever should go down with the medication.”

Luke frowned at her. She seemed nice enough but PR people were weird. There was a different one for every country and Luke found it hard to figure out if they were really on the band's side. Of course they were paid to be, but sometimes it felt like they were behaving differently so PR people would say nice things about them. Sometimes he wondered if they were secretly out to get them, find a chip in their nice, young punk dudes persona and take all their gathered information to sell it to the tabloids. Because that was why she was here in this room, surely. That's why she hadn't left after the doctor told them Michael should be fine after some rest. Questions about scarring were left unasked. There was a good chunk of hair missing from the floppy fringe, much more obvious now that Calum had pushed it back. Luke made himself look away from the PR lady. 

Their tour manager got up with a sigh. “I'll call then venue,” he said and pulled his phone out of his pocket as he left the room. Ashton looked from Luke to Calum, glanced at Michael's sedated form and quickly looked away again. “We could play without him,” he said. “We've done it before.” Calum's head whipped up from where he'd been watching Michael, his expression hurt. Luke shook his head. “No, we can't. Last time he wasn't hurt. And besides, it would be filmed, that'd be just weird.”

“It's weird for the fans, too,” he muttered. “They paid money to see us.”

“Oh, now you're suddenly the responsible musician? We postponed Japan because you had a tummy ache!” Calum glared at him. “Appendicitis!” Ashton defended himself. Calum shrugged. “Same difference,” he said quietly, rubbing his arm where he had had a close encounter with the pyrotechnics himself. Maybe that's why he felt more deeply for Michael than the others. Sure, they were concerned but Calum had felt the heat of the fire himself, had flinched away fast enough before he could get seriously injured. It was so hot. All he could think about was how the plastic of Michael's stupid fake plugs had melted down his earlobe when he finally took the towel away from his face. He didn't think about how his skin looked or his eyebrows or how there weren't any lashes around his friend's green eye. Calum blinked. Those were the things he didn't think about. 

The tour manager returned and told them all was settled, their gear was being picked up by the crew. The PR lady scribbled in her notepad. 

\- 

Michael was released from hospital the next day, bandages still in place and heavy prescription painkillers – the instructions stated clearly he wasn't in any shape to be behind the steering wheel of a car while taking them - in hand. He blearily joked that he shouldn't drive, like, ever, anyway. The car took them to the back entrance of the hotel, away from the eyes of waiting, worried fans. Michael wasn't in the mood to have his picture taken and nobody else was in the mood to explain what had happened. Calum helped him out of the car and up to the hotel room, Michael so stoned from the pills that he could barely walk. He sank into the cold sheets of his bed with a sigh. Calum turned to leave, let him sleep some more, when Michael slurred: “Do I look really shit?” 

Calum sat down on the edge of the bed. “No, dude, you look fine.” The side of Michael's face that wasn't covered in bandages scrunched up sceptically. “For someone who ran into a geyser of fire,” Calum shrugged. 

“Am I bald?” he wanted to know next, reaching up a hesitant hand to touch the hair that was frizzy and hard from the flames. Calum smiled. “You already were, mate,” he joked but turned serious when Michael didn't smile back. 

“Do you want your parents to come?” Michael shook his head. “They'll just worry.”

“I think they're already worried.”

Michael rolled over onto his side, the one not hurt, away from Calum. “I don't want them to see me like this,” he said quietly. Calum reached out to squeeze his friend's shoulder. “It's not so bad.”

Michael made a non-committal noise. Calum sighed. “It won't be so bad when the bandages come off,” he tried to reassure Michael. “They put this burn cream stuff on it, you'll be fine.” Michael didn't reply. Calum squeezed his shoulder again and got up. “Yell if you need something,” he said and left the room. 

\- 

“Punks are supposed to be ugly.” Luke frowned at Ashton. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked. “That's what Mick Jones said,” Ashton explained. “Mikey shouldn't worry about the scars.” 

“We don't know if there'll be scars,” Luke cut in. Ashton rolled his eyes. “You saw it, Luke, there was hardly any skin left.” Luke closed his eyes at the memory, he didn't want to relive it. “How can there not be scars? They're doctors, not magicians.” 

“How can you be so...” Luke was struggling to find a word that wouldn't deeply hurt Ashton, “careless – about this?” Ashton shrugged. “I'm being realistic. It's not gonna do anyone any good to pretend his face isn't all fucked up.”

“Ashton!” Luke got up suddenly. “Shut the fuck up!” He stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind himself. Michael's face wasn't fucked up. He could grow his fringe out and hide the burns behind that. Or get a skin transplant if it was really bad. But he wasn't fucked up, he wasn't ugly. He wasn't. 

\- 

Michael didn't feel any pain, he realised as he lay alone in the dark hotel room. In fact, he couldn't feel the side of his face at all. That was probably good, it meant the pain killers were working. He carefully ran his fingertips over the bandages. They felt kind of soggy but it didn't hurt. His skin had felt tough and crinkly when he took the towel away from his face backstage and he wondered if it looked like burned plastic. It smelled like someone had forgotten pork on an open-fire BBQ. Michael had read somewhere that human flesh tasted like pork. Apparently it also smelled like it. 

He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he'd have to go back to the hospital to get the bandages changed. He still had to tell his band mates he didn't want them to come with him. Sure, they said it wasn't so bad, he looked fine. But he had seen their faces when they had come off stage and the paramedics had made him put down the towel. He had been hurt and scared and they'd looked at him like he was a particularly gruesome jump scare. He didn't need a repeat of that in a surgery with better lighting than their dressing room. 

A hand went up to his hair as he tried not to think about the sting when the nurse had applied the smelly cream to his face before the bandages came on. It felt so much shorter. Michael had avoided mirrors, windows and other reflecting surfaces – namely his phone screen – since it had happened. At first, he'd been in too much pain to even think about checking what he looked like. But now, nicely sedated, he was too scared. What if he was ugly now? They'd kick him out of the band, he was sure. For all of their talk about not being a boy band, their claims to be punk like Blink and Green Day, half of their appeal to their – let's face it – mainly female, teenaged audience was their pretty faces. He doubted posters with a hideously scarred guitarist would sell well. 

Maybe he could wear a balaclava. That seemed to work for 21 Pilots. Or he'd use his newly formed twitter-friendship with Gerard Way and borrow Mousekat. Well, maybe beg for a replica, something like Bunnydog. Michael would send him a PM tomorrow. That would probably work, hide behind some kind of mask for the rest of his career. He yawned, his mouth weirdly lopsided. Or maybe the pills were stronger than he had assumed. 

\- 

“Are you awake?”

Michael slowly blinked his eyes open. Luke was standing at his bed, Starbucks cups in hand. Michael was about to roll over onto his left side, block out the sunlight coming into the room through the curtains and tell Luke to fuck off. But a sharp pain when he moved his cheek against the pillow stopped him. Right, he remembered, fucking pyrotechnics. 

“I brought you coffee.” Like offered him one of the cups. “And you have to take your pills.” He nudged the bottle on the bedside table. Michael sat up weakly. 

“Can you take them with coffee? Ash said yes but Calum was a bit worried. And he snagged a little of the burn cream they gave you. His arm is really red.”

Michael popped a painkiller into his mouth and gulped it down with the lukewarm, sweet coffee. Hazelnut flavour, he noticed. Luke was the best. 

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Poor Calum, I can't even begin to understand what he must be going through.”

Luke grinned at him. “I see it didn't burn the sarcasm out of you.” He sipped his own coffee. “Your appointment is in an hour. You should get up if you want breakfast. We're all ready to go, so...”

“I don't want you to come with me,” Michael interrupted him. Luke frowned. “It's no big deal,” he tried to reassure. “They're just changing the bandages. I'm not a baby, I can go on my own.” Luke still looked uncertain. “It's not on my own, anyway, the bodyguard is coming along.”

“I guess,” Luke shrugged. “It's not gonna take long, right?”

Michael shook his head. “An hour, tops.”

“Hmm,” said Luke, not sure if he was okay with letting Michael go on his own. He wanted to be there for his friend. When Luke himself was sick, he never wanted to be alone. He wanted cuddles and reassurance and someone to make him tea and bring him sweets and just generally take care of him. But, he figured, Michael and him were very different in many ways. Luke liked to be surrounded by huge amounts of people at all time which probably had to do with never even having the chance to be away from his nosy, noisy brothers when he grew up. People made him feel safe and happy. People made Michael feel strange and uncomfortable. He preferred the company of his gaming laptop to going out to parties. 

“You have to come back as soon as you're done, promise?”

Michael snorted – which hurt his face – and said: “I'm not sure where I'd go, looking like the Phantom of the Opera.” Luke wasn't sure he understood what Michael meant. 

\- 

The doctor frowned as he carefully swiped sterile cotton balls across Michael's cheek. “The wound has a bit more drainage than I'd like,” he said. “We'll dress it today but tomorrow we should see if it's not better to let some air touch the skin.” The skin still left, Michael thought darkly. At least the painkillers had kicked in and his face was numb in a strange way that made him want to giggle. 

“Does it hurt, Mr Clifford?” a nurse asked. She was young and pretty. Michael wondered if he could get her number, even with half his face burned off. “It's okay when I take the pills,” he replied and offered a smile. She smiled back. He thought she had maybe blushed a little. “I'll put on the clean dressing, now,” she said and turned away to get everything ready. Michael wasn't sure why but he poked his tongue out of his mouth and touched it to the very edge of his cheek. The skin was moist and cold and tasted like rubbing alcohol and the white bits in deodorant. It was disgusting. He pulled his tongue back quickly before the cute nurse could see what he was doing.

“How is your friend feeling?” she asked while she gently applied bandages to his face. “The one who also got hurt?” 

“He is stealing my burn cream.”

She let out a little, high pitched laugh. “That's good. The cream is new and has shown very good results.” Michael hummed a bit, just enjoying the feeling of a pretty girl paying so much attention to him. He would have to get used to them not doing that, anymore. 

\- 

“No,” Ashton said and glared at everyone. “He's fine, why should we cancel any more shows?”

“How is half his face covered in bandages fine, exactly?” Calum asked. 

Ashton rolled his eyes. “His hands aren't burned. He doesn't play with his face.”

“But he's not well,” Luke said. “He should probably stay in bed, not hop around on stage.”

“He doesn't have to hop, he can sit in a chair,” Ashton mused. “Or we could...,” he hesitated. “Play without him?” 

“We could play without you, you know?” Luke looked at Calum wide-eyed. Usually Calum was the calm one, not really bothered by any band-internal stress. He came up with the idea to tease Michael about losing his passport by pretending they had found it. He'd hug you and whisper something sincere into your ear, then turn around and joke about how much of an idiot you were for whatever it was he had just comforted you about. Angrily snapping at people was definitely not something Calum did. 

“No, you couldn't,” Ashton said loftily. “We've got two guitars but only one drummer.” He grinned. It was a nice grin, though, showing he was joking and he really only worried about the fans. But Calum apparently saw it differently. “We'll get a drum computer,” he huffed. “How does that feel, huh? Everyone's replaceable so cut it out!”

“I never said Mikey's replaceable, what the fuck, Cal?” Ashton shook his head in irritation. “But this is our job. Just because one of us is on sick leave doesn't mean we can all slag off.” 

Calum crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm not going anywhere near those flame things again,” he stated. Luke shook his head. “The crew already told me we won't use them, anymore,” he said, looking between Ashton and Calum. “I think we should ask Mike if he's up to playing or not. He seemed alright this morning.”

“Alright for someone with a burned face,” Calum muttered. 

-

Michael's bodyguard had picked him up some breakfast from McDonald's on their way back to the hotel. His band mates were watching him as Michael sat on the sofa, chewing slowly. He'd noticed that his face got so numb that he kept accidentally biting the inside of his cheek. It was hard to tell if he was chewing on his own flesh or the Egg McMuffin. 

“So, what do you think?” Ashton asked. “Up for playing tomorrow night?” 

Michael eyed him wearily. “Will there be fire?” They all shook their heads. Michael took another bite and chewed carefully. He was pretty sure he hadn't accidentally hurt himself this time and swallowed loudly. Ashton rolled his eyes. “Sure, I guess. Can I wear a balaclava?” He had forgotten to PM Gerard Way. And he wasn't sure how long making a Mousekat replica and then shipping it to Europe would take. It wasn't like Michael could pay Gerard the insane amounts of money he probably earned from his comic books and music, anyway. He still hadn't managed to buy a new piercing bar for his eyebrow because the ones he liked, the ones that he knew wouldn't infect his eyelid again, were surprisingly expensive. He'd asked his mother but she was secretly hoping it would fall out again. 

“What?” Calum asked incredulously.

Michael gestured at his face, half-eaten Egg McMuffin in one hand. “A balaclava. You know, like 21 Pilots?” Luke frowned. “I thought that's cake from Turkey?” 

“Baklava is cake,” Ashton sighed. “Balaclavas are like skiing masks. For bank robbers.”

“And ninjas!” Michael pointed out. He finished his breakfast and ran his tongue around his mouth, checking if he maybe needed to go back to the hospital and have stitches. It would be nice to see the cute nurse again. 

“Uh,” said Luke. “I'm not sure we've got skiing masks but we could probably go out and buy you one? If that's what you want?” Michael nodded. “I've got a wrestling mask,” Calum offered. Everyone turned to look at him. There was a long silence, finally broken by Luke saying: “...why?” Calum blushed. “Err, do you remember the girl in Zurich?” he asked. 

“The one with Toblerone or the one with boobs?” Michael wanted to know. “Toblerone.” They all nodded. “Well, it turned out she was a bit, ehm, kinky...” Ashton put his hands up. “Oh my god, stop right there!” Luke snorted. Michael looked worried. “Is it clean?” he asked. “Did you wash it after...” 

“Yuck, oh my god!” Ashton shouted. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Calum shrugged. “I didn't cum on it or anything,” he said. “Who wore it?” Luke giggled. “Er, well...,” Calum started but was interrupted by Ashton saying “oh my god!” once more and getting up to go to his room. “I did,” he said quietly, not wanting to force more information on Ashton than he already had. Michael nodded approvingly. “I can deal with your sex sweat,” he said. Luke stared at him, surprised. “Did I miss anything here?” he asked. Michael shook his head. “Remember that night we caught Calum backstage?” Luke laughed. “Brown eyes, second row, Chicago, was it?” Calum grinned stupidly at the memory. “That was my clean after-show t-shirt he wore,” Michael explained. Luke pulled a disgusted face. “Dude, eurgh!” Calum giggled. “You're just jealous because I get more nookie!”

“Where is your sex mask, anyway?” Michael brought the conversation back to the important things. “Is it at least a good wrestler?” Calum shrugged. “It looks like a Power Ranger to me.” Michael smiled, noticing his face has stopped being so nicely numb. Shit, he'd have to take more pain killers. “Power Rangers are cool.”

-

Power Rangers were not cool. First of all, the stupid wrestling mask looked nothing like a Power Ranger, Michael would have to sit Calum down and actually watch the show. It looked more like a deluded clown serial killer, which was perfectly fine with Michael, though. Second, the wrestling mask was tight. Really, really tight. Michael wondered how Calum had managed to stand it during sex, of all things. He had those adorable puffy cheeks and it must have been hard for him to breathe. Maybe, Michael thought, his friend had an asphyxiation kink. The problem wasn't that Calum might like weird shit in bed, the problem was that despite another dose of pills, Michael couldn't stand the pressure of the mask on his hurt cheek. And he had tried while standing still in a hotel bathroom, he didn't even want to think about how much it would hurt under the bright lights of the stage with sweat running under the bandages. Sadly, this ruled out balaclavas as well. And probably any Mousekat replicas. Unless they made a really big one. And that would probably be really heavy. 

He sighed and patted down the bandages where they had come unstuck from pulling the mask off. The skin underneath looked... gone, to be honest. The little bit of his cheek he had peeked at looked pink and raw and slightly bloody. It reminded him of a badly scraped knee. 

Michael left the bathroom and handed the mask back to Calum. “It's too tight,” he sighed. Calum turned a little pink and nodded. “We could try a hockey mask? They don't cling so much,” he said. Michael climbed into his bed. “I don't know, man. My face hurts.”

Calum lay down next to him. “Did you take your medicine?” he asked. Michael nodded. Calum put an arm around him, offering silent comfort. Michael reached over to pat his hair. “How's your arm?” he asked. “Does it hurt?” Calum flexed his muscles under the skin that had connected with the fire so much more briefly than Michael's. “It tingles a bit,” he said quietly. 

To be fair, he had wanted his mum right after it had happened. That Michael was hurt only made him feel worse. His arm had been an angry red and felt a little blister-y when he pressed down on the spot where it was worst. Three seconds longer and his skin would have popped from the heat. Calum had sent pictures of his arm to Mali-Koa and it had made him feel a little better when she had called him a wuss. But for Michael's sake, he pretended that all was fine. Although it still hurt a bit when he turned his arm in a funny angle. Michael reached for the tube of prescription cream on the night stand and rubbed a small dollop into Calum's skin. 

“There was a sexy nurse changing my bandages today,” he told him. “She asked if you were okay.” Calum smiled. “Ah, that's why you wanted to go by yourself. More sexy nurses for you!” 

“Foiled,” he laughed but stopped quickly when it made his injured cheek stretch and burn. He had irritated the wound by putting on the wrestling mask. “Fuck,” he said quietly and cupped his hand around the bandages carefully. Calum sat up a bit and frowned. “Does it hurt? Do you have to go back to the hospital?”

Michael shook his head. “It'll get better when I don't move or touch it or anything,” he mumbled, trying to make his mouth jostle his cheek as little as possible. “No gig for me, though.” 

Calum looked really upset, he noticed. And he wasn't stupid, there was a weird tension between his band mates. Calum didn't like playing without anyone, claimed that it didn't feel right if it wasn't all of them on stage. But there was no way Michael would go out there, stupid fucking bandages on his face and unable to do much, apart from probably messing up his guitar parts because the pain killers slowed down his fingers. He had tried picking out a melody on his acoustic while Calum had uprooted the wrestling mask and it hadn't sounded right. 

“Will you come and watch us, at least?” Calum gave Michael his best puppy eyes. That didn't sound like fun to Michael. Actually, it sounded kind of like torture. He was already feeling a bit shitty because he'd managed to hurt himself despite the lovely, strong pills. To stand around and watch the others have fun on stage, faces intact and beaming, was – literally – adding insult to injury. 

He gave Calum a little reassuring squeeze. “If my face stops hurting,” he promised. But he had already decided that he wasn't. 

-

In the end, Michael didn't even have to lie about feeling too sick to watch the performance. With an unhappy look at Michael's cheek, the doctor ordered a strict schedule of bed rest and fresh air and no more wrestling masks, what had he been thinking? “Is the balcony enough for the fresh air bit?” Michael asked. He didn't like leaving the hotel unless he had to as it was, and being a disfigured freak only made it worse. “The fans are a bit... stalker-ish,” he explained and then gestured at his face. “I don't really want this in the papers.” The doctor nodded. “Balcony should be fine. Try to stay away from smoke.” Michael would have to have a chat with Calum about that. “And please,” the doctor added as he got ready to leave the room. “Don't rub the wound, don't scratch it, don't put a damn wrestling mask over it. I will see you on Monday, Mr Clifford.” Michael gave him a little wave. 

Sadly, it wasn't the cute nurse filling in the paperwork. It was a guy who looked like he'd rather be at a body building contest than doing a shift at the hospital. He handed Michael another prescription for pain killers and white gauze in a plastic bag. “This is sterile,” he explained. “The wound has to breathe so it can dry and start healing.” That sounded disgusting. “If you do anything where you could get dirt into the wound, put this on.” The nurse gestured at the gauze. “It's mainly for sleeping. But if you hike through a desert, it would help, too.” Michael gave him a funny look. “You're Australian, right?” Michael rolled his eyes. “I'm not from the Outback!” The guy shrugged. 

-

Michael wasn't a fan of not having soft, white bandages covering his face. He had caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the hospital doors and it wasn't nice. He looked like Freddy Krueger's love child. Before the car even pulled out of the parking lot, Michael was taking another one of the pills. Fucking pyrotechnics. What had they been thinking? They had stumbled and fallen all over the stage during their last big tour supporting One Direction and to this mix of idiotic teenagers with no control over their ridiculously long limbs, they added fire. It was bound to go wrong. 

Michael leaned back in the car seat. The leather was cold against the back of his neck and made him feel a little better. Or maybe the pain killers were getting to work, already. He was so tired. He'd been tired ever since it happened two days ago. Like the fire had burned all energy out of him. Or maybe he just needed more coffee. Luke had promised to get him another hazelnut flavoured one when he got back from the hospital. 

Michael's tongue touched his bared cheek before he even knew what he was doing. It was still moist and cold but it didn't have that horrible taste of medication anymore. It tasted like... pork. Great. 

-

“It sucks that you can't come,” Calum said. He had crawled into bed with Michael who was sitting up, sipping his Starbucks coffee and watching TV. “I'm not supposed to be around smoke, either,” Michael said. Calum sat up a little. “Is this some sort of intervention?” he grumbled. “Did you talk to my parents?” Michael patted his hair. “Shut up,” he said and pointed at the TV. “That's what Power Rangers look like, idiot.” 

“You're the idiot,” Calum said and snuggled into Michael's shoulder. He had chosen to be at his right side. Without the bandages on, he didn't dare to look at the burned cheek for too long. Calum was scared that Michael would be able to see something in his eyes. Because it looked bad. It looked really, really bad. They had taken out Michael's earring at the hospital so at least that wasn't a worry anymore. It must have hurt to separate the molten plastic from the skin of his earlobe, though. And that was the bit Calum was able to think about without feeling sick. He refused to look at the place where Michael's eyebrow had scorched itself into his skin by studiously staring into his eyes. If he concentrated really hard on the green irises then he was able to forget there were no lashes on Michael's left eye, that the skin around it was red with dark edges. There was no denying it anymore. There would be scars. 

\- 

“What are you doing?” Ashton asked Michael. He had joined them at some point, sitting in a chair and propping his feet up on Michael's bed. But he had stopped watching Madagascar and was looking at Michael. 

“Huh?” he said, pulling his tongue away from his cheek. Ashton frowned. 

“Are you... licking yourself?” His tone was incredulous and slightly disgusted. Michael blushed. 

“No?” he squeaked. He felt Calum sit up on his oher side. 

“Why are you licking yourself?”

“I am not,” Michael insisted. “Why would I do that?”

Ashton shrugged. “I rub spit on my arm when I burn it on the oven,” he said. “But I don't think licking open wounds is a good idea, Mikey. It can't taste nice.”

Michael looked down. He still thought it tasted like pork and he quite enjoyed it. If he was ugly for the rest of his life, at least he'd taste good. Positive thinking! Or, well, tasting. 

Calum crawled over his lap to look at the wound. Michael could tell he was suppressing a wince and he frowned, inspecting his cheek. “Don't lick it,” he said sternly. “There's all sorts of bacteria in your mouth.” Ashton nodded in agreement. “You don't want to risk cheek amputation.”

Michael rolled his eyes. As if there was anything left to amputate. The fire had done a very thorough job. 

-

Calum loved being famous. He loved the free stuff everyone gave them – he had about five billion headphones in two million different colours – and he loved that drinking regulations didn't apply to them and he loved that girls loved them. The girls were his favourite part, he had to admit. Free stuff and lots of drinks were great. Sharing free stuff and lots of drinks with a pretty girl who looked at him with googly eyes was even better. 

Tonight's company was petite. Well, Calum had called her tiny and Ashton had told him off for it. In Calum's head tiny was good. Tiny girls had tiny feet and wore tiny tops that exposed flat bellies. He wasn't shallow. Okay, he wasn't that shallow. Looks were a big part of attraction and as much as Calum believed that a stable relationship needed more than good looks, he was hardly the age nor in the right position to look for love. That was something you did in your thirties when your band's success was long forgotten and your good looks were starting to fade. He'd probably go back to football at some point in the future. Finish school, get a degree and become a PE teacher. And then he'd look for love beyond petite girls with long hair and googly eyes. 

Calum tried to remember her name as he was kissing her on his bed. It was something ridiculous, like Izzy. Probably not her real name, anyway. Some of the girls claimed that they were treated badly but when this had all started, Calum had been the one feeling used. Girlfriends before had wanted to hold hands and cuddle, talk about school and watch films together. Groupies, he had learned by now, wanted to fuck. They got a bit irritated when he asked too many questions. But sometimes there was stuff he wanted to know. He wanted to ask about girls' tattoos and band t-shirts. He wanted to know if they had enjoyed the festivals when they still wore the bracelets. And he wondered why Luke always got the chatty girls. Calum girls were sometimes creepily mute, even in bed. So sometimes Calum didn't even try, took the girl to his room, got her naked, got off, sent her away. But he always let them have the complimentary chocolate left on the pillow by housekeeping. 

Izzy, or whatever her name was, was a no-talking case, and Calum was fine with that. If he got talking tonight, he'd probably start crying about Michael. He had excluded tears from sex a while ago. Her lip gloss was some peach kind of flavour, fruity and exotic. It clashed with the taste inside her mouth which was strong and savoury, like she had just had dinner. Pork, Calum realised.


	2. Blood

The NME was the first to publish the short statement the PR lady had written. Luke found it in his twitter feed. It wasn't wrong, not at all. But it was so... blah. It could have been about any other accident in any other band. They would have to publish something themselves, write a newsletter to ease the fans' worries. But Luke didn't want to publish anything before they knew if Michael would have to take the rest of the tour off. He seemed tired. When Michael didn't have to go to the hospital, he was in his room. More specifically, he was in bed, asleep a lot of the time or watching TV. He didn't check his e-mails or answer his phone. Even his parents had only reached him by calling the hotel's land line.

 

The statement didn't help. It seemed to be mourning the pyrotechnics more than it was talking about the guitarist's health.

 

“Did you read it?” Calum said as he came in from smoking on the balcony. He had to do that while Michael wasn't napping in the deckchair out there. Luke nodded.

 

“She's the worst, I don't like her,” Calum said and flopped down next to Luke on the sofa. “I like Bruce, he's a good guy. We should try only to get hurt in Australia.” 

 

Luke kicked Calum's shin gently. “You only like Bruce because he called you a Maori surf god,” he chuckled.

 

“So?” Calum asked innocently. “I am the best surfer in the band. Fact!” Luke kicked him again.

 

“How's your arm?” he wanted to know and leaned in to inspect Calum's skin. “Still looks red.”

 

Calum rubbed a hand over the spot and nodded. “It doesn't usually take this long to go away. Like, when I burned my finger on the toaster, that was gone in a day.” He looked at his arm sceptically. “I guess it was hotter than the toaster.” Luke hummed. “Put more of Mikey's cream on?”

 

Calum nodded. “It's in his room. I don't want to wake him up.”

 

-

 

Michael was hungry. Since he got, well, disfigured – that was a thought he'd somehow have to get used to – that was all he was, hungry and tired. His band mates tried to coddle him and kept bringing him sweet snacks. Cupcakes, chocolate bars, those weird gummy not-Haribo things that were all gooey in the middle and that, according to Ashton, made you fat and your teeth rot, if not even giving you cancer. That was usually exactly what Michael wanted, living on just sweets and candy if he could get away with it. But now he wanted something savoury, and not Pizza. What he wanted was bacon, raw bacon. His stomach growled angrily. Michael rolled over, careful not to press his cheek against his pillow, and grabbed the phone to call room service. It turned out they only did fried bacon as part of the breakfast combo and Michael briefly wondered if he should try a “don't you know who I am?”-tantrum but then decided that fried bacon was a lot better than none at all.

 

“I take it you're feeling a bit better?” Ashton asked as he brought the tray into Michael's room. Michael wasn't going to answer doors while there were people with whole faces lazing around. He sat up and took the tray from Ashton. 

 

“I'm fucking starving,” he said and pushed the meek salad decoration off his plate. He wanted to just grab the bacon with his hands and stuff it into his mouth but Ashton was watching him so he used a fork, begrudgingly. 

 

“You should eat something other than bacon,” Ashton said. “Get some vitamins into you.”

 

“I drank orange juice,” Michael mumbled around a mouthful. “And there's vitamins in milk? Luke got me muscle milk this morning.”

 

Ashton snorted. “He got you chocolate milk! Bacon and chocolate falvour muscle milk is hardly a good diet.”

 

“You drink muscle milk all the time!” Michael pointed out.

 

“Yes, but I actually work out. Just drinking it doesn't magically give you muscles.”

 

Michael shrugged. “It tastes nice.”

 

Ashton sighed and patted Michael's leg before getting up. “I guess it's good you're eating. Even if it's all empty calories.”

 

“Empty calories taste the best!” Michael grinned and licked his lips. Fuck, the wound on his cheek – he could touch the edge just barely with the tip of his tongue without making it too obvious – tasted even better than the bacon. 

 

-

 

They were playing without Michael that night. Again. Calum used the opportunity of Michael having stayed at the hotel and Ashton taking a post-workout, pre-gig nap to smoke in the dressing room. Luke was fiddling with an acoustic guitar but he didn't mind being surrounded by smoke.

 

“I wrote a song for Michael, to cheer him up,” Luke said, turning a tuning peg until he was satisfied with the sound. Calum smiled around his cigarette. “Aw, he'll love that.” Luke looked up and grinned. 

 

“It's a bit silly,” he explained and started playing a melody. It involved a lot of finger picking and Calum couldn't stop thinking how they had all become so much better at what they were doing since music had become their job. The lyrics were silly, about a punk who got caught in a video game and had to fight fire-spitting dragons. Calum laughed. “Dude, we should make that our next single!”

 

“I don't like seeing him so upset,” Luke shrugged. Calum mirrored the gesture. “I think he's doing pretty well, actually,” he said. “I'd just be crying all day.” Luke chewed on his lip.

 

“Maybe he can't cry anymore,” he said, sounding worried. “What if his tear ducts got fused shut?”

 

“Oh my god, you're all idiots,” Ashton said, stretching as he got up off the couch. “Let's get ready to go on stage.”

 

They were in the middle of playing English Love Affiar when Calum looked down at his arm and thought that it seemed more red than before. He frowned. It should be fading, not getting worse. He was hungry, he suddenly realised. Maybe he should have eaten before the show, not sucked down cigarettes in quick succession. Maybe he'd get something after they were done. A nice, big meatball sub.

 

Luke came over to him and bumped their shoulders together, a quiet question if he was okay. Calum nodded, shook his arm out – it was sore from the burn mark down to his fingertips – and stepped up to the microphone.

 

“Since Mikey can't be here tonight,” the audience gave a collective groan of sympathy, “you will have to sing his parts in the next song extra loudly!” The audience cheered.

 

-

 

Michael had called room service three more times after the first round of bacon. And he still wanted more. Maybe, he thought, as he flicked through TV channels, looking for something less boring than Wife Swap, he was turning into a werewolf. He was pretty sure he had read somewhere that lycanthropy included cravings for raw meat a couple of days before the full moon. It might have been in Fan fiction. Some of the stories were really good, even the ones about them. He had read and thoroughly enjoyed a little one shot in which he and Calum were a kitten and a puppy. Being a cat would be great, he thought. Everyone would let him sleep all day, rub between his ears and feed him all the bacon he wanted. And he wanted a lot of bacon.

 

Michael reached out to call room service for the fifth time that day. He wondered if the kitchen staff thought he was having a weird, food-based orgy.

 

-

 

Ashton frowned at Calum's arm during their routine early morning cartoon watching session. “Did you scratch it or something?” he asked, reaching for the cream on Michael's night stand and slapping a good amount onto Calum's skin.

 

“Cold!” he hissed. “No, I've not done shit. I guess it'll go away. It doesn't hurt anymore.”

 

“Hm, “Ashton grumbled. He didn't like it. Small burns should fade, not get redder each day. But there was no point freaking Calum out when everyone was already so worried about Michael. They were stuck in the hotel in London until they got the okay from Michael's doctor to keep touring. But their tour manager refused to cancel any more shows so they took a van each day to go to the venue in places really too far away to make it as a day trip. It was like when they had first come to England to record and play any place that would book them just to get a foot in the door somewhere other than Australia. He was torn between nostalgia and annoyance. It didn't help that Luke had started googling skin transplants when they were in the van for hours and hours. Thankfully, he had stopped showing Ashton pictures after he had gagged on an apple and Calum had to hand him an empty plastic bag to retch into until his stomach settled down. 

 

Ashton didn't mind looking at Michael's face. It was still the same Michael, just now more aware what happens when you hold your face into fire. It wasn't the nicest thing to look at but he was his friend and Ashton wasn't about to start treating him any differently. He was sure that Michael was cottoning on to the fact that Calum and Luke preferred to pretend there was no open wound on anyone's face and kept stubbornly to Michael's right side.

 

“Maybe put some ice on it?” Ashton said, nodding at Calum's arm. Calum rolled his eyes.

 

“Man, you're so old and wise, I don't even know how I dress myself without you around!” But he still got up and rummaged through the mini bar. 

 

-

 

It was the sexy nurse on duty again and it made Michael's day a couple of billion times better, especially when she leaned over him, breasts right in his line of vision, to remove the gauze he liked to refer to as his safety-curtain. He could hear the doctor who was watching everything closely tut. But it sounded far away and unimportant. There were breasts right there. The nurse, Michael noticed, smelled like pork. And he wanted to lick her from her toes to her hairline.

 

“Have you kept the wound uncovered? Let it breathe?” the doctor asked, sadly replacing the nurse with his much less appealing body. Michael nodded absently, still watching the nurse. She smiled at him and he smiled back. The doctor was carefully touching his cheek. “It is very unusual for a burn to have this much drainage.” Michael decided that “drainage” was his least favourite word.

 

“Can't we just rub it dry?” he asked. 

 

The doctor gave him a startled look. “Have you been rubbing the wound?” he wanted to know, voice tense and accusing. Michael shook his head and the doctor relaxed. “Good, that would be a very bad idea. The skin needs time to heal by itself.”

 

Michael was pretty sure there was no skin left to heal. On the rare occasion that he did accidentally catch an eye of his fucked up face, he was pretty sure it was just a thin layer of tissue and muscle covering his bones. The fat of his face – which he had hated so much for so long – gone. He wished he hadn't muttered about hoping for it to be gone, now. Michael sighed, breathing in deeply and releasing the air loudly. They must have been serving pork in the hospital's cafeteria. The doctor smelled just as delicious as the nurse.

 

-

 

The tour manager had made Luke feel like it was his fault. He'd carefully asked if they could at least cancel shows that were more than four hours away because that started to get really annoying and draining and surely it took something out of their performance and that wasn't right for the fans... He had been cut off somewhere around there with the tour manager ranting about how they have to decide if they want to make it big and make sacrifices or if they'd rather go back home, back to the band being something they did on weekends.

 

Now Luke was waiting for Michael to come back from the hospital to find out if they could at least set up camp a bit further North. Maybe Liverpool, Calum would love that. It wasn't that the journey would be the problem for Michael, he was in a fine condition to move around, even yell at Calum for smoking near him – probably more for the sake of shouting than actually being angry with him – but apparently there was something not going as well as they had first hoped with the healing process. Burns could be tricky like that, Luke had found out from google. They would scab up just fine and look perfectly normal and then suddenly be like, nope, full blown infection! Antibiotics could help with that but then he had clicked on a link about those and there were forums full of angry people ranting about how antibiotics should be avoided at all costs.

 

He heard the door and Michael walked in. His cheek was bare and it looked like a different cream had been applied to it, making it look strangely dark. “Hey, how'd it go?” Luke asked.

 

Michael sighed. “They put this weird shit on my face,” he explained. “Burns like fucking fire.”

 

Luke smiled reassuringly. “Oh man, I'm sorry. But is everything alright?”

 

Michael nodded. “The painkillers made me a bit woozy,” he said.

 

“Come here.” Luke opened his arms and Michael snuggled into his embrace. Luke ran a hand over his friend's back soothingly. He didn't like seeing people hurt and felt helpless knowing there was nothing he could do to make Michael get better quicker. All he could offer was comfort. 

 

He smiled to himself when he felt Michael nuzzle his neck, affectionate like a sleepy kitten. But suddenly, he pulled away with a yelp as he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He pushed Michael away roughly, jumping up from the sofa.

 

“What the...” he started when he saw it: Michael's lips were stained with blood. Luke's blood. Before he could even scream, Michael ran. 

 

-

 

“What the fuck is going on?” Calum asked as he came into the room. Luke stared at him, hands awkwardly held in front of his neck but not touching. “Lukey?” Calum stepped closer. “Are you bleeding?” He pushed Luke's hand down to look at his neck. “Oh my god,” he whispered, reaching for his phone to call an ambulance. “What happened? Luke, you need to tell me what happened, I have to tell them.” 

 

Luke just stared at him with glassy eyes. Calum made him sit down on the sofa. He tried to explain what he was seeing but even to him it sounded bizarre. “I don't know what happened, he won't tell me,” he told the man on the other end of the line. “It looks like he got cut or something.”

 

Luke shook his head a little. “Bitten,” he whispered. Calum's eyes widened and repeated it into the phone.

 

“What's happening?” Ashton wanted to know, sitting down next to Luke. “Are you bleeding?” Luke turned his glassy stare on him. Ashton frowned at his neck. “What the fuck?” 

 

“We have to stop the bleeding,” Calum said, following the instructions he was given. “With a towel or something.” Ashton grabbed a clean tea towel from the kitchen and pressed it to Luke's neck. “It's okay,” he said quietly. “The ambulance will be here, soon. Nobody's gonna hurt you.” Luke burst into tears. 

 

-

 

Michael was hiding in the hotel's basement. He was pretty sure that he was in the laundry facility because he had wedged himself between a couple of those big trolleys full of dirty sheets. It smelled like sweat and maybe even a little like semen but very faintly of pork. He kept licking his lips. The  blood was long gone but the faint taste of it lingered. It was the best thing Michael had ever tasted in his life. Not so much the blood, although that was by any means amazing, but the best part was the little flecks of flesh that stuck between his teeth. He hadn't bitten a chunk out of Luke's neck, too quick to push Michael away. And he felt awful for having hurt his friend but he had smelled so good, so savoury and tasty, and Michael hadn't been able to stop himself. He wanted more.

 

-

 

Luke didn't need stitches. They disinfected the wound and chided him for being too kinky for his age. He wanted to find it funny but... Michael had bitten him. It wasn't funny, it was scary. Ashton was holding his hand, rubbing the back of it.

 

“Maybe he's just high from the painkillers?” Calum offered. “And he thinks he's a vampire?”

 

Ashton gave him an annoyed look. “Is that supposed to be helpful?” Calum shrugged and looked down. He'd known Michael forever and it just didn't seem like him to bite Luke. To hurt anyone, really. Michael was the least physically threatening person in the world. Calum remembered him having to stay behind after class one day because he had refused to jump into the Rugby pile-up, too scared to accidentally hurt any of the other students in the process. The teacher had been furious. How could he go from that to biting Luke?

 

“I want to go home,” Luke said softly. Ashton nodded. “We'll go back to the hotel as soon as the doctor says we can.” Luke shook his head. “No, I want to go home,” he stressed the last word.

 

Calum and Ashton shared a look. “I'm not sure we can do that just yet, Lukey,” Ashton explained gently, as if speaking to a small child. Calum noticed Luke's lips were shaking before their tour manager burst into the room.

 

“Can't you go one fucking day without hurting yourself?” he asked and leaned down to inspect Luke's neck. “How on earth did that even happen?”

 

Luke starting crying again and buried his face in his hands so Ashton tired to explain as best as he could. Although he didn't really know what had happened. “Mikey, er... bit him?”

 

The tour manager looked up from the wound. “Are you asking me?” Ashton shook his head. “Luke says Michael bit him.”

 

The tour manager looked from Ashton to Calum and then to Luke. He sighed. “Great!”


	3. Sheets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very short and just a reminder that I didn't abandon this story. I'm just slow.

Michael had wrapped himself up in the dirty sheets he's pulled from the big laundry wheely things. They smelled good, like warmth and sweat and food. He had licked all the blood from his lips. All the little pieces of flesh he'd sucked out of between his teeth. And he was hungry. Nothing he could think of appealed to him, though. Not pizza or burgers or god forbid fruit. He wanted meat, raw meat. Suddenly he remembered the terrible catering in Germany, uncooked minced meat on bread. They had a silly name for it, fire fighter jam or something, which it said on the ordering sheet and everyone in the band had tapped the line enthusiastically, wanting to try it. Then, it had been the worst thing that had ever been in Michael's mouth. But now, he really wanted it. Raw meat and flecks of shiny, white fat. And wasn't British cuisine just as disgusting as German one about meats? Both countries to rainy for decent BBQs. 

Michael untangled himself and got up. The hotel kitchen was down here, he remembered. They must have raw meat in there.

\- 

“Where is he?” the tour manager wanted to know. Everyone shrugged. “He bit you and just ran away?” Luke stared at him and then started crying. Calum wrapped him arms around him tightly, careful not to touch the bandage on his neck. The tour manager sighed. “Well, we'll have to find him. Maybe he's on drugs. Bath salts.” Ashton rolled his eyes. But they settled Luke into bed and separated to look for Michael. 

Ashton tried to make a list of places where he could be. Starbucks, McDonald's, Pizza Express. Usually, yes, but they were brightly lit places so no. Michael had avoided going anywhere where people could see him since his accident. Cinema, dark and potentially some superhero movie was playing. Although to get there, he would have to go outside and face fans. Ashton was quickly running out of places where he thought Michael could be. Especially under these circumstances, with a wounded face and Luke's blood on his face. Luke's blood on his face. Ashton shuddered.

Secluded – check. Dark – check. Soft surfaces – check, if cou didn't mind the smell of unwashed sheets and Calum knew from experience that Michael didn't. Michael had this obsession with washing his hands, worried about getting sick from pressing elevator buttons and holding onto the safety bars on the bus. But his mother had to call him and remind him to change his sheets or he'd sleep in them for a year. If Michael was still in the hotel, he would have to be in the room where they kept the laundry. 

He carefully pushed the door open and peered into the dark room. It smelled musty and pretty bad. There were big piles of laundry in the wheely baskets. He couldn't see anyone. “Mikey?” he called softly. No reply came. He stepped further into the room and turned the lights on. The fluorescent bars flickered and hummed. This was a horror movie scenario. Any second, Calum would be attacked by an axe murderer. He took a deep breath to shake off that thought. This wasn't a movie, this was real life. He had to find Michael.

There were crumpled sheets on the floor between two of the big baskets. They were pushed back against the wall like a blanket someone had wrapped themselves up in while watching TV and not bothering to fold them again after getting up. There was a bit of blood on a corner. Maybe some hotel guest was on their period. But Calum doubted that was the source of the blood. Michael had been here. 

-

“Hello?” Luke called out when he heard the door slam shut. He was still in bed, tired and worried and scared and hurt, fucking hell, it just hurt so fucking much. He was equal parts furious with and sorry for Michael. He'd bee living with pain for days now and Luke just wanted to cry despite the pain killers he'd taken. “Ash? Cal? Did you find him?”

But it was neither who opened the door to his room. Luke gasped loudly and sat up straight against the headboard, pulling his knees up as a defence. “Are you looking for me?” Michael asked. He wasn't smiling exactly but there was something unsettling about his expression. He looked crazy to Luke. 

“Please don't hurt me again,” he whispered. Michael shook his head. “Nah, I got something to eat from the kitchen.” He came closer and sat on the edge of the bed. Luke tried to curl up smaller. “I'm sorry I hurt you,” Michael said and Luke thought he sounded sincere. But he was still scared. 

“Why'd you do it?” he asked softly.

Michael shrugged. He looked at Luke for a long time. Then he sighed deeply. “You smell so good,” he said. Luke shivered. Fuck.

-

“I can't fucking find him!” Ashton yelled when he got back to the hotel room. “Where can he even go without a bodyguard? There's fans everywhere, I don't...”

He stopped as he stepped into Luke's room. “Mikey,” he said softly. 

Michael looked up. “Hi,” he said, giving a little wave. “I'm not hurting Luke.” And he wasn't, he was sitting on the foot of the bed, as far away from Luke as possible. But Luke still looked terrified, as if it wasn't one of his best friends sitting there but a rabid tiger. Ashton decided he should be diplomatic about this. 

“Why don't you come and sit with me? Luke needs rest,” he said. Michael nodded. “Get some sleep, Lukey,” he said and got up, following Ashton.


End file.
